The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

Karadzic ignored her. “And if your God is my God, why doesn’t he protect my church? The Orthodox church?”

  The priest smiled gently, still staring without blinking, hunched over on the steps.

  “I’m asking you a question, Priest,” Karadzic said.

  “I can’t speak for God,” the priest said. “Perhaps you should ask him. We’re God-loving people with no quarrel. But I cannot speak for God on all matters.”

  The small girl lifted the pastry and water higher. Karadzic’s eyes took on that menacing stare Janjic had seen so many times before.

  Janjic moved on impulse. He stepped up to the girl and smiled. “You’re very kind,” he said. “Only a good Serb would offer bread and water to a tired and hungry Partisan soldier.” He reached for the pastry and took it. “Thank you.”

  A dozen children scrambled from the stairs and ran to the table, arguing about who was to be first. They quickly gathered up food to follow the young girl’s example and then rushed for the soldiers, pastries in hand. Janjic was struck by their innocence. This was just another game to them. The sudden turn in events had effectively silenced Karadzic, but Janjic couldn’t look at the commander. If Molosov and the others didn’t follow his cue there would be a price to pay later— this he knew with certainty.

  “My name’s Nadia,” the young girl said, looking up at Janjic. “It’s my birthday today. I’m thirteen years old.”

  Ordinarily Janjic would have answered the girl—told her what a brave thirteen-year-old she was, but today his mind was on his comrades. Several children now swarmed around Paul and Puzup, and Janjic saw with relief that they were accepting the pastries. With smiles in fact.

  “We could use the food, sir,” Molosov said.

  Karadzic snatched up his hand to silence the second in command. Nadia held the cup in her hand toward him. Once again every eye turned to the commander, begging him to show some mercy. Karadzic suddenly scowled and slapped the cup aside. It clattered to the stone in a shower of water. The children froze.

  Karadzic brushed angrily past Nadia. She backpedaled and fell to her bottom. The commander stormed over to the birthday table, and kicked his boot against the leading edge. The entire birthday display rose into the air and crashed onto the ground.

  Nadia scrambled to her feet and limped for her mother, who drew her in. The other children scampered for the steps.

  Karadzic turned to them, face red. “Now do I have your attention?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  IVENA PAUSED her reading and swallowed at the memory. Dear Father, give me strength.

  She could hear the commander’s voice as though he were here in the greenhouse today. She suddenly pursed her lips angrily, mimicking him. “Now do I have your attention?” Ivena relaxed her face and closed her eyes. Now do I have your attention? Well we have yours now, don’t we, Mr. Big Shot Commander?

  For years she’d told herself that they should have told the children to leave them then. To run back to the houses. But they hadn’t. And in the end she knew there was a reason for that.

  Behind her the clock ticked away on the wall, one click for every jerk of the second hand. Other than her breathing, no other sound broke the stillness. Reliving that day was not always the most pleasant thing, but always it brought her an uncanny strength and a deep-seated peace. And more important, not to remember—indeed not to participate again and again—would make a mockery of it. Take this in remembrance of me, Christ had said. Participate in the suffering of Christ, Paul had said.

  And yet Americans turned forgetting into a kind of spiritual badge, refusing to look at suffering for fear they might catch it like a disease. They turned the death of Christ into soft fuzzy Sunday-school pictures and refused to let those pictures get off the page and walk bloody into their minds. They stripped Christ of his dignity by ignoring the brutality of his death. It was no different from turning away from a puffy-faced leper in horror. The epitome of rejection.

  Some would even close the book here in a huff and return to their knitting. Perhaps they would knit nice soft images of a cross.

  It occurred to her that every muscle in her body had tensed.

  She relaxed and chuckled. “What are you, the messiah for America, Ivena?” she mumbled. “You speak of Christ’s love; where is yours?”

  Ivena shook her head and opened the pages again.

  “Give me grace, Father.”

  She read again.

  “NOW DO I have your attention?”

  Father Michael’s heart seemed to stick midstroke. He mumbled his prayer now, loud enough for the women nearest him to hear.

  “Protect your children, Father.”

  The leader was possessed of the devil. Michael had known so from the moment the big man had entered the courtyard. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

  He barely heard the flutter of wings to his right. The dove had taken flight. The commander glared at him. Now do I have your attention?

  The dove’s wings beat through the air. Yes, you have my attention, commander. You had my attention before you began this insanity. But he did not say it because the dove had stopped above him and was flapping noisily. The commander’s eyes rose to the bird. Michael leaned back to compensate for his humped back and looked up.

  In that moment the world fell to a silent slow motion.

  Michael could see the commander standing, legs spread. Above him, the white dove swept gracefully at the air, fanning a slight wind to him, like an angel breathing five feet over his head.

  The breath moved through his hair, through his beard, cool at first and then suddenly warm. High above the dove, a hole appeared in the clouds, allowing the sun to send its rays of warmth. Michael could see that the ravens still circled, more of them now—seven or eight.

  This he saw in that first glance, as the world slowed to a crawl. Then he felt the music on the wind. At least that was how he thought of it, because the music didn’t sound in his ears, but in his mind and in his chest.

  Though only a few notes, they spread an uncanny warmth. A whisper that seemed to say, “My beloved.”

  Just that. Just, My beloved. The warmth suddenly rushed through him like water, past his loins, right down to the soles of his feet.

  Father Michael gasped.

  The dove took flight.

  A chill of delight rippled up his back. Goodness! Nothing even remotely similar had happened to him in all of his years. My beloved. Like the anointing of Jesus at his baptism. This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.

  He’d always taught that Christ’s power was as real for the believer today as it was two thousand years earlier.

  Now Michael had heard these words of love. My beloved! God was going to protect them.

  It occurred to him that he was still bent back awkwardly and that his mouth had fallen open, like a man who’d been shot. He clamped it shut and jerked forward.

  The rest hadn’t heard the voice. Their eyes were on him, not on the dove, which had landed on the nearest roof—Sister Flauta’s house surrounded by those red rosebushes. The flowers’ scent reached up into his sinuses, thick and sweet. Which was odd. He should be fighting a panic just now, terrified of these men with guns. Instead his mind was taking time to smell Sister Flauta’s rosebushes. And pausing to hear the watery gurgle of the spring to his left.

  A dumb grin lifted the corners of his mouth. He knew it was dumb because he had no business facing this monster before him wearing a snappy little grin. But he could hardly control it, and he quickly lifted a hand to cover his mouth. The gesture must look like a child hiding a giggle. It would infuriate the man.

  And so it did.

  “Wipe that idiotic grin off your face!”

  The commander strode toward him. Except for the ravens cawing overhead and the spring’s insistent gurgle, Father Michael could only hear his own heart, pounding like a boot against a hollow drum. His head still buzzed from the dove’s words, but another though
t slowly took form in his mind. It was the realization that he’d heard the music for a reason. It wasn’t every day, or even every year, that heaven reached down so deliberately to man.

  Karadzic stopped and glared at the women and children. “So. You claim to be people of faith?”

  He asked as if he expected an answer. Ivena looked at Father Michael.

  “Are you all mutes?” Karadzic demanded, red-faced.

  Still no one spoke.

  Karadzic planted his legs wide. “No. I don’t think you are people of faith. I think that your God has abandoned you, perhaps when you and your murdering priests burned the Orthodox church in Glina after stuffing a thousand women and children into it.”

  Karadzic’s lips twisted around the words. “Perhaps the smell of their charred bodies rose to the heavens and sent your God to hell.”

  “It was a horrible massacre,” Father Michael heard himself say. “But it wasn’t us, my friend. We abhor the brutality of the Ustashe. No God-fearing man could possibly take the life of another with such cruelty.”

  “I shot a man in the knees just a week ago before killing him. It was quite brutal. Are you saying that I am not a God-fearing man?”

  “I believe that God loves all men, Commander. Me no more than you.”

  “Shut up! You sit back in your fancy church singing pretty songs of love, while your men roam the countryside, seeking a Serb to cut open.”

  “If you were to search the battlefields, you would find our men stitching up the wounds of soldiers, not killing them.”

  Karadzic squinted briefly at the claim. For a moment he just stared. He suddenly smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile.

  “Then surely true faith can be proven.” He spun to one of the soldiers. “Molosov, bring me one of the crosses from the graveyard.”

  The soldier looked at his commander with a raised brow.

  “Are you deaf? Bring me a gravestone.”

  “They’re in the ground, sir.”

  “Then pull it out of the ground!”

  “Yes, sir.” Molosov jogged across the courtyard and into the adjacent cemetery.

  Father Michael watched the soldier kick at the nearest headstone, a cross like all the others, two feet in height, made of concrete. He knew the name of the deceased well. It was old man Haris Zecavic, planted in the ground more than twenty years ago.

  “What’s the teaching of your Christ?”

  Michael looked back at Karadzic, who still wore a twisted grin.

  “Hmm? Carry your cross?” Karadzic said. “Isn’t that what your God commanded you to do? ‘Pick up your cross and follow me’?”

  “Yes.”

  Molosov hauled the cross he’d freed into the courtyard. The villagers watched, stunned.

  Karadzic gestured at them with his rifle. “Exactly. As you see, I’m not as stupid in matters of faith as you think. My own mother was a devout Christian. Then again, she was also a whore, which is why I know that not all Christians are necessarily right in the head.”

  The soldier dropped the stone at Karadzic’s feet. It landed with a loud thunk and toppled flat. One of the women made a squeaking sound—Marie Zecavic, the old man’s thirty-year-old daughter, mourning the destruction of her father’s grave, possibly. The commander glanced at Marie.

  “We’re in luck today,” Karadzic said, keeping his eyes on Marie. “Today we actually have a cross for you to bear. We will give you an opportunity to prove your faith. Come here.”

  Marie had a knuckle in her mouth, biting off her cry. She looked up with fear-fired eyes.

  “Yes, you. Come here, please.”

  Father Michael took a step toward the commander. “Please—”

  “Stay!”

  Michael stopped. Fingers of dread tickled his spine. He nodded and tried to smile with warmth.

  Marie stepped hesitantly toward the commander.

  “Put the cross on her back,” Karadzic said.

  Father Michael stepped forward, instinctively raising his right hand in protest.

  Karadzic whirled to him, lips twisted. “Stay!” His voice thundered across the courtyard.

  Molosov bent for the cross, which could not weigh less than thirty kilos. Marie’s face wrinkled in fear. Tears streaked silently down her cheeks.

  Karadzic sneered. “Don’t cry, child. You’re simply going to carry a cross for your Christ. It’s a noble thing, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and his man hoisted the gravestone to Marie’s back. Her body began to tremble and Michael felt his heart expand.

  “Don’t just stand there, woman, hold it!” Karadzic snapped.

  Marie leaned tentatively forward and reached back for the stone. Molosov released his grip. Her back sagged momentarily, and she staggered forward with one foot before steadying herself.

  “Good. You see, it’s not so bad.” Karadzic stood back, pleased with himself. He turned to Father Michael. “Not so bad at all. But I tell you, Priest—if she drops the cross then we will have a problem.”

  Michael’s heart accelerated. Heat surged up his neck and flared around his ears. Oh, God, give us strength!

  “Yes, of course. If she drops the cross it will mean that you are an impostor, and that your church is unholy. We will be forced to remove some of your skin with a beating.” The commander’s twisted smile broadened.

  Father Michael looked at Marie and tried to still his thumping heart. He nodded, mustering reserves of courage. “Don’t be afraid, Marie. God’s love will save us.”

  Karadzic stepped forward and swung his hand. A loud crack echoed from the walls, and Michael’s head snapped back. The blow brought stinging tears to his eyes and blood to his mouth. He looked up at Sister Flouta’s roof; the dove still perched on the peak, tilting its head to view the scene below. Peace, my son. Had he really heard that music? Yes. Yes, he had. God had actually spoken to him. God would protect them.

  Father, spare us. I beg you, spare us!

  “March, woman!” Karadzic pointed toward the far end of the courtyard. Marie stepped forward. The children looked on with bulging eyes. Stifled cries rippled through the courtyard.

  They watched her heave the burden across the concrete, her feet straining with bulging veins at each footfall. Marie wasn’t the strongest of them. Oh, God, why couldn’t it have been another—Ivena or even one of the older boys. But Marie? She would stumble at any moment!

  Michael could not hold his tongue. “Why do you test her? It’s me—”

  Smack!

  The hand landed flat and hard enough to send him reeling back a step this time. A balloon of pain spread from his right cheek.

  “Next time it’ll be the stock of a rifle,” the commander said.

  Marie reached the far wall and turned back. She staggered by, searching Father Michael’s eyes for help. Everyone watched her quietly, first one way and then the other, bent under the load, eyes darting in fear, slogging back and forth. Most of the soldiers seemed amused. They had undoubtedly seen atrocities that made this seem like a game in comparison. Go on, prove your faith in Christ. Follow his teaching. Carry this cross. And if you drop it before we tire of watching, we will beat your priest to a bloody pulp.

  Michael prayed. Father, I beg you. I truly beg you to spare us. I beg you!

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS Nadia who refused to stay silent.

  The homely birthday girl with her pigtails and her yellow hair clips stood, limped down the steps, and faced the soldiers, arms dangling by her side. Father Michael swallowed. Father, please! He could not speak it, but his heart cried it out. Please, Father!

  “Nadia!” Ivena whispered harshly.

  But Nadia didn’t even look her mother’s way. Her voice carried across the courtyard clear and soft and sweet. “Father Michael has told us that people filled with Christ’s love do not hurt other people. Why are you hurting Marie? She’s done nothing wrong.”

  In that moment Father Michael wished he had not taught them so well.

 
Karadzic looked at her, his gray eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape, obviously stunned.

  “Nadia!” Ivena called out in a hushed cry. “Sit down!”

  “Shut up!” Karadzic came to life. He stormed toward the girl, livid and red. “Shut up, shut up!” He shook his rifle at her. “Sit down, you ugly little runt!”

  Nadia sat.

  Karadzic stalked back and forth before the steps, his knuckles white on his gun, his lips flecked with spittle.

  “You feel bad for your pitiful Marie, is that it? Because she’s carrying this tiny cross on her back?”

  He stopped in front of a group of three women huddling on the stairs and leaned toward them. “What is happening to Marie is nothing! Say it! Nothing!”

  No one spoke.

  Karadzic suddenly flipped his rifle to his shoulder and peered down its barrel at Sister Flouta. “Say it!”

  A hard knot lodged in Father Michael’s throat. His vision blurred with tears. God, this could not be happening! They were a peaceful, loving people who served a risen God. Father, do not abandon us! Do not! Do not!

  The commander cocked the rifled to the sky with his right hand. His lips pressed white. “To the graveyard then! All of you! All the women.”

  They only stared at him, unbelieving.

  He shoved a thick, dirty finger toward the large cross at the cemetery’s entrance and fired into the air. “Go!”

  They went. Like a flock of geese, pattering down the steps and across the courtyard, some whimpering, others setting their jaws firm. Marie kept slogging across the stone yard. She was slowing, Michael thought.

  The commander turned to his men. “Load a cross on every woman and bring them back.”

  The thin soldier with bright hazel eyes stepped forward in protest. “Sir—”

  “Shut up!”

  The soldiers jogged for the graveyard. Father Michael’s vision swam. Father, you are abandoning us! They are playing with your children!

  Several children moved close to him, tugging at his robe, embracing his leg. Blurred forms in uniform kicked at the headstone crosses and hoisted them to the backs of the women. They staggered back to the courtyard, bearing their heavy loads. It was impossible!